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At least I hadn’t destroyed his pool again. And doesn’t it say a lot about a man’s character when he keeps repairing and replacing his inflatable pool, even though his girlfriend’s cats keep destroying it? I think it says that man is a cat friend through and through.

And I love a man who loves a cat.

So I underwent Vena’s probings with a certain measure of equanimity, and when finally she’d given me a clean bill of health, Marge had finished warming up her spaghetti, and soon the only sounds that could be heard were nine humans—Vena had kindly accepted Marge’s invitation to stay for dinner—and four catsmunching away to their heart’s content.

I hadn’t escaped this latest adventure of mine fully unscathed, but fur has a habit of growing back, and so does wounded pride. So I think in all fairness I really was fine.

And so when Dooley’s paw surreptitiously stole out and touched my forehead again, I resisted the urge to slap it away. Harriet was right. My friend was only looking out for me, annoying as his ministrations were, and so I endured his attentions with fortitude.

A certain kind of peace descended upon the backyard, and for a while everything was nice and quiet. Then, suddenly, there was the loud screeching sound of a bird swooping down, and as everyone looked up, fully expecting things to turn into a scene from Hitchcock’s The Birds, Moses’s loud voice could be heard screaming, “Take that, Frank—and that and that and that!” followed by the loud lamenting voice of what I imagined was a large orange cat named Frank, bellowing, “Hey, whaddya think you’re doing, bird!”

Dooley giggled, and so did Harriet, Brutus and myself. Even Odelia was smiling.

It’s not often that bird poo brings about what can only be termed poetic justice, but when it does, I can tell you that it is extremely satisfying for all concerned.

Then again, Hampton Cove is perhaps not a town like most others. I mean, where else can you find four cats quietly applauding a bird’s defecatory act of vengeance against one of their own?

Moments later, Moses swept down upon our backyard, and gave us a flyby salute.

“I got him, you guys,” he said with marked satisfaction. “I got him good.”

“Great job, Moses,” I said.

“Yeah, great job, buddy,” said Dooley.

“He won’t do that again,” Brutus grunted.

“No, he’ll think twice next time,” Harriet added.

And with a cheerful,“Adios,” the large pigeon flew off.

Charlene, who’d watched the back-and-forth with open-mouthed surprise, turned to her boyfriend, and said, “There’s something going on with your family’s cats, Alec. I almost can’t believe I’m saying this, but it seems to me as if… they can talk to birds.”

Uncle Alec swallowed uncomfortably.“I’m sure you’re just imagining things, honey.”

“No, I’m serious. They were talking to that pigeon just now—and you know what’s even stranger? The pigeon was talking back to them! Isn’t that just the weirdest thing?”

“Oh, Charlene, Charlene,” said Harriet with a purr. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

Uncle Alec, looking for a way to distract his girlfriend, suddenly pointed to the haphazardly glued-together goatherd.“Hey, what did you do with my present?”

All those around the table looked at him.“Your present?” asked Marge.

“Sure. I got you that thing for your tenth wedding anniversary, remember? Cost me a pretty penny, too.” He frowned. “Don’t tell me you broke it. You told me when I gave that to you that you’d put it somewhere you could look at it every day—to remind you of your favorite big brother.”

Marge looked a little shamefaced.“Well, I did give it a great spot in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, a real top spot,” said Gran with a little grin.

“Good,” said Uncle Alec, leaning back. “The guy who sold it to me said it was a real Otto Spiel. Pretty valuable, too.”

“But, honey,” said Charlene, “that’s one of the figurines Vicky Gardner was forced to make when she was being kept a prisoner by her sister-in-law, remember?”

Uncle Alec stared at her.“Oh, right.” He thunked his head. “How could I forget?”

The meal continued, and Charlene seemed to have forgotten all about the Poole cats’ strange behavior. Soon I noticed how Dooley was eyeing Uncle Alec with concern.

“What is it, Dooley?” I asked.

“Do you think Uncle Alec is losing his mind, Max?” he asked. “He completely forgot about that figurine.”

“I’m sure he was just trying to distract Charlene,” I said. “I think she’s starting to suspect there’s something strange going on with us.”

“Oh?”

“I think she’s starting to suspect that we can talk to our humans.”

“Which is a good thing, right?”

“Not exactly. You never know how she’ll react. She might completely freak out.”

So now Dooley switched his attention from Uncle Alec to Charlene, and eyed her very closely indeed—to such an extent that Charlene started to become a little uncomfortable.

“Alec?” she whispered.

“Mh?”

“That cat is staring at me.”

“What cat?”

“The small gray one.”

“Oh, that’s Dooley. Don’t mind him. He’s a sweet little fella.”

“Dooley?” I said. “Can you please stop staring at Charlene?”